and I will let you think the
worst at once. I am not what I pretended to be. I wrote to Mr. Verrian
saying what I did, and asking to see the rest of his story on the
impulse of the moment. I had been reading it, for I think it is
perfectly fascinating; and a friend of mine, another girl, and I got
together trying to guess how he would end it, and we began to dare each
other to write to him and ask. At first we did not dream of doing such
a thing, but we went on, and just for the fun of it we drew lots to
see which should write to him. The lot fell to me; but we composed
that letter together, and we put in about my dying for a joke. We never
intended to send it; but then one thing led to another, and I signed
it with my real name and we sent it. We did not really expect to hear
anything from it, for we supposed he must get lots of letters about his
story and never paid any attention to them. We did not realize what we
had done till I got your letter yesterday. Then we saw it all, and ever
since we have been trying to think what to do, and I do not believe
either of us has slept a moment. We have come to the conclusion that
there was only one thing we could do, and that was to tell you just
exactly how it happened and take the consequences. But there is no
reason why more than one person should be brought into it, and so I will
not let my friend sign this letter with me, but I will put my own name
alone to it. You may not think it is my real name, but it is; you can
find out by writing to the postmaster here. I do not know whether you
will publish it as a fraud for the warning of others, but I shall not
blame you if you do. I deserve anything.

"Yours truly,

"JERUSHA PEREGRINE BROWN."

If Verrian had been an older man life might have supplied him with the
means of judging the writer of this letter. But his experience as an
author had not been very great, and such as it was it had hardened and
sharpened him. There was nothing wild or whirling in his mood, but in
the deadly hurt which had been inflicted upon his vanity he coldly and
carefully studied what deadlier hurt he might inflict again. He was of
the crueller intent because he had not known how much of personal vanity
there was in the seriousness with which he took himself and his work. He
had supposed that he was respecting his ethics and aesthetics, his ideal
of conduct and of art, but now it was brought home to him that